Occam's Razor
by Firestar9mm
Summary: Leon Scott Kennedy had read somewhere that moving was one of the seven most traumatizing experiences a person could endure in their lifetime. He could see why it had made the short list.


**Author's Introduction:**

*cheerfully gives a golden Luger a spin on her trigger finger before putting it back in its holster.* If there are any _Resident Evil_ fans out there who remember me, I bet you all never thought I'd pull one of _these_ out of the holster again!

Well, you were wrong. Because I can _always_ get back in a saddle.

**Some things real quick:**

1) Please, please, _**puhhh-leaase**_ do not leave me any reviews arguing with me about _Degeneration_. Despite their being elements of it in this fic, I haven't seen it yet so don't friggin' spoil it for me, and even though I love the Resident Evil series to hell and back, the reviews weren't exactly glowing so I doubt the film's going to have any bearing on my writing one way or the other. I still have to own it because it is Leon and Claire and thus I must own it, but you know what I mean.

2) I absolutely do not care what RE crackpairing anyone else supports and don't want to argue about them or "discuss" them (read: argument). I do my best to base my pairings on evidence, feasibility and _common sense_, which means I've already got a leg up on any so-called internet defense attorney who wants to play Let's Make a Deal. Everyone who knows me knows I'm a stickler for canon, and to the best of my ability this fic is no exception (I admit I'm a bit behind on some installments so I'm a little fuzzy on the canon and may have inadvertently taken some liberties here), but I'm also human and everyone who knows me _**ALSO**_ knows that this is my #2 OTP (_Yoroiden Samurai Troopers_ SeijixNasuti being #1) and so I'm fully prepared to defend it to the death. And if any smart-alecky trolls out there think they've got enough ammo to outlast me on that one, let me just tell you right now, you don't.

So if anyone's planning to do either of the above things, save me the time and yourself the trouble and just keep walking. This is my favorite video game series of all time, I have played almost every single installment since it first came out over a decade ago, I have grown very, very attached to these characters, and I am not about to let anyone spoil it for me.

(*squints out into audience, using her hand for a visor*) Anyway, if anyone lasted through that snarky lecture, doesn't mind me opening my fics with a threat, and still wants to read—enjoy! I'll be stopping briefly at the concession stand for a Cherry Coke, then I'll be up in the projector booth if anyone needs me.

**

**Occam's Razor**

_A Resident Evil/Biohazard fic by Firestar9mm_

**

_I'll become what you became to me._

_**(**_**The Goo Goo Dolls, **_**Black Balloon**_**)**

**

Leon Scott Kennedy had read somewhere that moving was one of the seven most traumatizing experiences a person could endure in their lifetime. Considering all the extra work they had to do making any apartment zombie-proof, he could understand why it had made the short list.

"_Damn_ it," Claire Redfield swore from the entryway, as a flurry of beeping sounds came from the hall borne on a muttered wave of additional expletives. Hiding a smile, Leon stopped rigging the tripwire he was holding to the boiler room door and went to give her a hand.

Claire's ponytail, which he had always thought moved independently of the rest of her, was waving angrily as she punched buttons on the security keypad next to the door. "Of course not," she was muttering. "Of course they can't give us a code that would make sense. I'm going to screw this up and they're going to barrel in here and shoot _us_."

Treading heavily so she'd hear him coming--he'd learned quickly the first week they lived together not to sneak up on her or else it was an elbow to the solar plexus—he slid his large hands up her shoulders, trying to rub the tension out of them. "Take a break. We don't need to set it up right now, just before we go to bed. We're done carrying in furniture and if something tries to break in, we've got the guns."

Claire put her hands to her forehead, pushing her bangs up. "I hid all the guns. Now I can't remember where."

He chuckled. "Take it easy."

"I should be better at this," she raged, ignoring his comment. "We've had enough _practice_."

Hearing her obvious frustration made Leon feel terribly guilty. After all, it was his fault that they had to keep on moving. Working for the government was a hell of a step up from running for his life in an abandoned police station, but it was a constant trade-off. Sure, the benefits were good, the pay was great and he had a health plan, but he was earning it by continually putting himself in the exact same type of situations that he'd worked so hard to escape from that first night in Raccoon City. And when they told him he had to be somewhere, he had to be there, no questions asked. That meant living where they told him to live, moving when they told him to move. Five moves in almost three years. Well, it had been more than that, but he'd started the counter over when _she_ had started coming along. He'd started a lot over when she had come along, now that he thought about it.

Claire. He'd known from that very first night in Raccoon City, when he'd offered her the 9mm from his glove compartment and she'd chambered a round easily without a trace of fright—ever since that second he had known that no matter what happened around her, she would be all right. Blood, guts, bone splinters, infectious effluvia and explosions that would have made Michael Bay green with envy—Claire was always going to be all right, would resurface with that cocky smile and a toss of that bright tail of hair. It was as sure as the rising of the sun, as dependable as the coming of night, a thought, a vision that he'd used as his secret crutch when his own problems threatened to overwhelm him.

He was still kicking himself for not insisting on accompanying her to Europe that first time, telling himself over and over again that if he'd just been a gentleman and told her _no_, damn it, she was _not_ going alone, she might not have ended up in a prison cell on Rockfort Island, enduring even more terror before doing what she'd set out to do from the start—reuniting with her brother Chris, one of the few surviving members of Raccoon City's now-defunct (saying "completely obliterated" just sounded too harsh, even now) Special Tactics and Rescue Service, better known among law enforcement circles as the S.T.A.R.S.

With the constant moving around and work-related distances, Leon had met Chris only a handful of times, but he liked the elder Redfield, liked his straightforward manner and classic gun show bravado. It was easy to see where Claire had learned courage under fire, right down to the wisecracks. At first Leon had been prepared for animosity over what he felt was his own shoddy performance keeping Claire out of trouble in Raccoon City, but to his relieved surprise he hadn't had to deal with any testosterone poisoning from Chris Redfield. Rather, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the two men that no matter how much of a handful she could be, the younger Redfield was precious to both of them, and either one would fight to a bloody, painful death to protect her. If it bothered Chris to have to share the job of looking out for his baby sister, he didn't show it; in fact, he seemed to welcome an extra set of eyes, an extra set of hands.

Leon was also a fan of Chris's "backseat"—a nickname which constantly earned him a slap upside the head from its owner, Jill Valentine, who added a much-needed touch of severity to what was left of the S.T.A.R.S. team, tempering Chris's often rash judgments with good common sense. She was the brains, Chris was once heard to say affectionately over a beer, and he was the brawn. He sounded like he couldn't have been happier with the arrangement, either. Leon could understand that, although it amused him to think that his own situation with Claire was the reverse—he was the analytical thinker, the one who wanted to explore all possible avenues and gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, while Claire was the blaster, the one who charged in with all guns blazing. Jill also seemed relieved that Claire, whose own work with the TerraSave organization required quite a bit of travel, wasn't moving around the country on her own anymore. Jill's own attention was admittedly monopolized by keeping watch over her own "partner"—for all his complaints about Claire's recklessness, Chris wasn't much better. The Redfields were blasters—it was in their nature, ran through their veins as surely as the overheated blood that fueled their fearless hearts.

"Redfield", Leon had decided long ago, was synonymous with "trouble magnet". He was pretty sure Jill agreed.

Not that he minded. It was that _smile_. That Redfield smile, the smile that had seen Leon through a night of terror in Raccoon City his first day on a job that he'd never gotten to, the smile that he was sure had seen Jill Valentine through her great escape from the Spencer Mansion, and later, the condemned town that only got to enjoy the title of "disaster area" for a short while before it was razed from the face of the earth. The smile that kept them all going, kept them all clawing their way out from under the bodies. The smile on the face of the angel, Made In Heaven.

When he'd gotten back from Spain, Leon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wanted that smile, forever. He'd known that the return trip would be rough, that there would be days of reports and stitches and clotting and coughing up blood, but all the morphine drips and codeine doses in the world didn't have nearly the same healing effect as that smile. He'd realized, lying in a state-sponsored hospital cot, that he'd been a fool to let that smile get away from him the first time. He wanted it back; would do anything to keep it.

Three months after the Harvardville incident, he'd gotten his chance.

**

Leon had always thought it was bitterly ironic that after fate had thrown him and Claire together so perfectly that first night in Raccoon City, ever since it had been like pulling teeth to get within state lines with her. Finally, after weeks of trying every number he'd ever had for her and getting nothing more than frosty computerized voices taunting him by telling him she'd disconnected and run away from him again, he managed to get a hold of her, only fifty miles from where he'd been living at the time. He'd had enough of innuendo and fighting to keep things casual; he'd simply told her the truth—"I want to see you."

Claire gave great hugs—she always threw herself into his arms, such was the force of her enthusiasm. It was positively contagious, so much so that he could never help smiling into her hair as he braced himself to catch her and squeeze her right back. It was one of the things he loved best about her, right along with the fact that as soon as she was within earshot it was like no time had passed—as soon as they'd sat down to dinner she'd started right in bitching about her landlord, how every day was a fight over something—the sound of her combat boots on the floor above his apartment, her late nights, and one small altercation involving someone trying to break into her apartment. He'd picked the wrong apartment to burgle—Claire slept with a Seecamp .380 autoloader. She'd gone easy on him, giving him two warning shots before she'd put one in his kneecap. He'd passed out before the police had arrived. If her life hadn't been in danger, Leon would have laughed at how she was just as upset over having to spackle over the bullet holes in the walls herself as she was over getting evicted.

It had been the opening he'd needed. "How long is he giving you to move?"

She looked so cute when she frowned that he always had to fight not to laugh. "My lease wasn't supposed to be up for another three months, but the other tenants have been complaining about the guns for a while. That bastard is using it as an excuse to break the terms of the lease."

"He can't do that," Leon had told her. "It's against the law. Why do the other tenants care if you carry a gun anyway? It's not like you go shooting up the place every weekend." Playfully, he arched an eyebrow at her. "Or _do_ you?"

It had worked; Claire laughed. "Of course not. Sometimes people see me coming in with it, though. I was so tired when I got back from this assignment I was on in Montana that I wasn't really thinking too clearly. I didn't put my jacket on and one of the other tenants saw my shoulder holster. She's got kids, so she freaked, and then suddenly _all_ the tenants who had kids were complaining. It's like I'm a second class citizen or something just because I'm single and I haven't felt the need to breed." She rolled her stormsky eyes and added in a mutter, "Not that I wouldn't love to use their brats for target practice. I can't keep a gun, but the kids in 3B can jump up and down on the floor right above my head at 5:30 in the morning watching 'Spongebob' when all I want to do is _sleep_."

Leon had felt a surge of pity for his friend, who looked suddenly so exhausted. There were lots of different kinds of warzones, and not all of them contained biological weapons or enemy soldiers. Some places were just plain _uncomfortable_, whether your life was in danger or not.

"That sounds like _hell_," he had said, and meant it. "I'm so sorry, Claire. Why don't you try to fight your landlord? You're a tenant, too, and you've got rights just like everyone else."

Claire had shrugged tiredly, sipping her wine—she was old enough now; that always cracked him up, too. "It's not worth it. Honestly, it's not worth it. I'll just find another place." She tried to smile. "Maybe I'll get lucky and get a landlord who's a member of the NRA."

Leon had smiled back, trying to control a suddenly racing heartbeat as he made the suggestion that had been in his mind ever since he'd stumbled, bleeding and exhausted, onto that underground train and seen that hopeful smile. "Or…you could stay with me. I've got just as many guns as you do."

Claire had chuckled, and then she'd swirled the wine in her glass. "You're serious," she'd realized.

"Absolutely," he'd said, still trying to keep his voice casual. "It's silly for you to be on your own anyway. It's not safe, and it's not efficient. I've got plenty of room in the place I'm in now."

"But it could take me a while to find a new place," Claire had protested. "My record isn't exactly glowing, and it's not like I've got references." She arched a brow. "Unless you want to pretend to be one?"

"Take as long as you need to. You don't even _have _to find a new place if you don't want to. I've got a spare bedroom, and all that's in there is a treadmill I never use. You can have the bedroom—_and_ the treadmill, if you want."

The offer seemed to shock her. "I can't just, like, crash with you indefinitely," Claire had said, brow furrowing in confusion. She had trouble with Occam's Razor—most likely because she was _not_ used to simple solutions.

He had reached for her hand, pressing his thumb gently against her palm. "Yes, you _can_ 'just, like, crash' with me indefinitely. You're on the road a lot because of work. So am I. You should have a place you can come back to. Someplace that won't care about the bullet holes." He'd smiled. "Claire, come on. It's you and me."

Her eyes had gone soft, bright with the possibility. "You…you wouldn't mind?"

"I wouldn't mind at all. I'd like it."

She'd blushed suddenly, a rare treat, and looked down at her wine, gazing bashfully up through her lashes at him. "Okay," she'd said. "Cool. I mean, thanks."

He'd smiled once more and clinked his beer against her wine glass. "No problem."

That weekend they'd eaten whatever food was left in her fridge and finished off the booze, which had made spackling over the bullet holes in the wall that much more amusing. It had taken a couple of trips with his pickup to get her furniture over to his apartment, even though all she'd kept was her twin bed, an armoire and the nightstand; the rest had ended up on the curb. All that come along with him on the last trip were three suitcases--one for clothes, one for weapons and one that contained a lot of heavy metal CDs and an 8-bit Nintendo console. Claire had followed on her beloved Softail Deuce—a descendant of the Harley that had carried her to Raccoon City that first night years ago—showing up only minutes after he'd reached the apartment, and just like that, she was home.

And to this day, he swore that that had been the easiest time he'd ever had talking Claire Redfield into anything.

**

Two years, eight months and five apartments later, some things had changed. The treadmill had eventually ended up on the curb; either the sanitation workers in Colorado had picked it up or someone had stolen it. Leon didn't eat ice cream, but now he always kept a pint of Haagen-Dazs Blueberry Cheesecake in the freezer, just for her. Instead of buying double-packs of cigarettes, he bought cartons and kept them in the kitchen cabinet over the silverware drawer and they just shared. (The rule had become that whoever took the last pack bought the next carton, and so far it had worked out perfectly, even if he ended up having to buy most of the cartons.) He'd gotten used to sleeping with music on, because Claire couldn't sleep without some kind of noise. Absolute quiet seemed to make her nervous. Most of the time he could hear her radio through the walls even with his door closed, but he never minded. Listening to whatever she had on was a small price to pay to know she felt comfortable. His own lullaby was having her so near; he would listen to her music drifting through the walls, so close to him, and he would close his eyes and know that they were meant to be this way, never alone, never too far apart.

That was why every time he received a new assignment, he'd lay awake in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling and panicking that this would be the time she'd decided she'd had enough. That he'd wake up in the morning and find her gone, her clothes missing from her bureau, her coffeepot gone from the kitchen, her motorcycle jacket missing from the entryway closet. If she stayed up late packing the night before a move, he stayed up with her, only retiring when she did, straining his ears to make sure she was asleep and still in the room beyond. Every moving day he woke up relieved at the sight of her, tangled in her bedclothes, hair a bright mess on her pillows—unlike him, she was not a morning person.

He knew the fear was irrational--that this woman he had trusted with his life from the moment they'd met would leave him in the middle of the night without an explanation--but it was always there, crackling in the back of his mind like electricity. In his opinion, Claire Redfield had had plenty of reasons to walk out on him, and by some miracle, she hadn't yet, even though she'd had her moments. But he couldn't shake the fact that she might one day if it got to be too much. He had no idea how she was being so patient with him.

It hadn't always been this easy. The second time they'd moved, it had worn on her especially hard. The first week in the Westchester apartment had been witness to three screaming matches, a broken coffee mug and a "Super Mario Brothers" cartridge that would never play correctly again. He knew it had been especially hard for her to make the Westchester move, so far from her brother and Jill, who were currently still in the Midwest. Leon was always angling for assignments that would keep her within easy reach of her family, but he wasn't holding his breath. The life he'd become so accustomed to didn't make allowances for domesticity—he was lucky to have it as good as he had it now. He never told Claire that there was even a possibility of moving to more desirable areas. He didn't want to get her hopes up; he was so tired of letting her down.

He was optimistic about this place, though. It would be a lot easier for them to do an end-run around Miami-Dade gun laws as opposed to the northeast. He wouldn't have any trouble due to his work with the government, and while Claire's work with the TerraSave organization was not considered law enforcement, she was legally permitted to carry a concealed weapon in a number of states and as such would not be violating the local statute.

Although he liked to tease her for working for "a bunch of hippies", Leon secretly fiercely admired Claire's work with TerraSave, despite the fact that he detested any activity that put her in danger. The organization had overwhelming public support, as well as the backing of several powerful political allies, so it was definitely a step up from the early days after the initial Umbrella skirmish, when people were deeming the surviving S.T.A.R.S. the victims of mass hallucination and people were laughing at the idea of attack by an army of bioweapons. It wasn't that Leon didn't appreciate the work that TerraSave was doing and the lives they saved, but protestors and activists as a general rule weren't of too much use in a firefight. It was admirable that these people supported justice and the preservation of life at all costs, but the pharmaceutical companies they were battling didn't give a damn about taking the higher road. Sometimes, you needed to fight excessive force with excessive force. They'd needed a blaster. Claire's purview was search and rescue—pulling people out of life-threatening situations was her specialty, and Leon had to smile at how skillfully she'd made a career out of what had come naturally to her in Raccoon City all those years ago. The small-town girl with no training had made good; Claire had a 92.7% success rating, the highest of any search-and-rescue operative at TerraSave. Still, despite the work she did, all the people she saved, Claire never saw herself as anything more than a hired gun. Leon had another name for her, but "hero" was a title that Claire had always shrugged off as well, no matter how much she deserved it.

Heroes, in Leon's opinion, were people who got up and kept going, no matter how rough things were, no matter how tired they were.

Right now, in their new apartment, his hero sighed and buried her face in her hands. The alarm cheeped at her.

Leon used the hands that were on her shoulders to turn her gently and pull her to him. She went gratefully into the embrace, hooking her chin over his shoulder. "Sorry about the alarm. I'll get it eventually."

"I know you will," he assured her, rubbing her back. "Don't stress about it. Why don't you just leave it for a few minutes and we'll take care of some of the other stuff?"

He felt her nod against his shoulder. "O.K. What's next?"

**

Claire was a great sport when it came to moving—she always helped him lift the furniture.

Before Claire had come to live with him, Leon had never kept any of his furniture between moves. None of it had held any sentimental value for him, and he invariably sold it to a consignment shop or left what he could at the curb whenever he vacated an apartment. But Claire flatly refused to give up her armoire, no matter how cumbersome it was, because she'd finally figured out how to arrange her few articles of clothing just the way she liked them. Leon could understand why she was so attached to her bed and nightstand as well—when you started to fear that you might never sleep in your own bed again, even something as seemingly insignificant as the night table you reached clumsily for in the dark when the alarm went off became precious.

It was contagious. After Claire had come to stay, Leon had started to develop his own irrational feelings of attachment to certain objects and pieces of furniture that he couldn't have cared less about before. He would never sell the overstuffed sofa now, because of all the pleasant evenings he and Claire had spent on it, watching action movies or slasher flicks and pointing out the plot holes; all the times he'd tickled her till she fell off of it, tears streaming down her cheeks from the laughter; all the times she'd fallen asleep before the end credits, cuddled against his side, one arm draped over his stomach, head resting against his shoulder. His simple nightstand was scarily similar to hers, something they'd laughed about when she'd brought hers over, and he secretly liked the fact that they matched. Often he would wonder what it would look like if they were both in one room, on either side of his bed, but thoughts of the nightstands sharing a room inevitably led to thoughts of him and Claire sharing the room, and he always shook those thoughts away when he found himself becoming too interested in them.

The most curious item they owned now was undoubtedly the grandfather clock. Claire had fallen in love with it at an estate sale and her simple joy at the strange item had convinced Leon to find a place for it in their apartment.

"Spooky," he'd said as the clock struck the hour, pendulum swinging, flashing shiny, then dull, then shiny behind its glass door.

"How could you say that?" Claire had sung, running a hand up the clock's smooth side. "I love these old clocks. Daddy had one in our house in Raccoon City. When he worked second tour, I used to try to stay up late and wait for him to come home, but I'd always fall asleep in the wing chair. I'd wake up when the clock would strike, and the whole rest of the house would be dark and quiet, except for those chimes."

She'd smiled, lost in memory, and Leon had been enchanted. He'd never heard her speak of "Daddy", and she so rarely talked about her childhood or her life before the outbreak. When she did, it was the briefest of sentences, off-the-cuff remarks triggered by random places or innocuous objects such as this.

"Want to hear something weird?" she had asked brightly, leaning against the clock, which was taller than she was. "There was a grandfather clock in the Ashford Palace. I heard it chime and I closed my eyes and for just a minute, I thought maybe I'd dreamt the whole thing up, and when I opened my eyes, I'd be little again, in the house in Raccoon City, waiting for my father to come home." She'd closed her eyes as she spoke, but there were no tears on her face, just a sweet, knowing smile, the smile of someone whose scars had made her stronger.

Ever since then, the clock had stood in the hall of whatever apartment they'd lived in. Leon was always extra careful moving it.

**

A sigh gusted from Claire's lips as she flicked her bangs from her forehead, letting the object she was holding slip dangerously from her grasp. "This bed gets heavier every time we move."

Leon grinned, hoisting his side of the bedframe. "Give me a break, Redfield, this is only your twin. You mysteriously disappear when it's time to move _my _bed."

Claire chuckled. "That'll teach you to sleep in a king-sized bed. _Oof_." She lost her balance and stumbled a bit. "I want to put this down. Did you decide which bedroom you wanted yet?"

"Oh." There was one thing about this particular move that he'd forgotten to tell her. "About that. There's…there's sort of only one bedroom. It's big—I mean, I put your nightstand and your armoire in there with my stuff, that way it's not sitting out here in the living room, but my bed's a king, it won't fit anywhere else."

Claire dropped her end of the bedframe, a look of mild shock on her face. "Well, that's just _great_, Leon," she said, dropping her hands to her sides in exasperation. "Where in hell am I supposed to sleep?"

He smiled encouragingly at her, putting his end of the bedframe down as well and hoisting the mattress onto it. "Relax! Just leave it here for now and we'll figure it out. Don't we always figure it out?"

Luckily, the words seemed to please her. "Yes."

He balled up his fist and tapped her gently on the shoulder. "Sure we do. Don't _worry_ so much, Claire."

Her lips quirked up in a little smile. "Can't help it." Sighing, she stretched her arms over her head. "You want to do the blades now or wait till later?"

This was a ritual they'd fallen into over the course of so many moves—by this time, they'd accrued enough sharp-tipped objects and stabbing weapons to hide at least three in every room. Leon was always amused by and grateful for the way Claire always turned it into a game, stashing weapons in clever places and daring him to guess where, like a bizarre Easter egg hunt.

Tugging playfully on her ponytail, he said, "Know what? I think we both need a break. Let's go out. We can finish setting everything up later."

"Are you sure?" she asked, glancing nervously around the entryway. "I haven't figured out the alarm and we haven't hidden the knives or anything and there's furniture _everywhere_—"

Brushing her bangs back from her forehead, Leon pressed a kiss to her brow. "Leave it for a while. Let's go out."

**

"Going out" was another ritual that had fallen into place over the many moves. It had begun the second time they'd moved, as Leon's apology to Claire for a fight they'd had; he'd realized that it was partially the choking space of the small apartment that had been getting to them, and that it might help if they went out and explored their new surroundings, in order to get used to them as quickly as possible. He'd told Claire he was treating her to supper anywhere she wanted, and by the end of the meal all was forgiven and their new home wasn't looking so bleak after all. Now, every moving day, they went out exploring, and he bought her supper. She always offered to pay at least once; he always refused. Somewhere along the way, whether while they were walking or over the gearshift in his truck, she would slip her hand into his. It was that part he liked the best, always surprised by how much only a casual touch could move him.

Tonight she granted his wish early, taking his hand before they had even decided on a restaurant. She usually held his left hand with her right, which left his gun hand free but compromised hers, another thing that surprised and flattered him. Before this, he hadn't been sure there was anything on the planet that would convince Claire Redfield to compromise her gun hand, especially not him.

"I'm dying in this heat," she sighed, using her free hand to flick her bangs out of her eyes.

"Stop being so hot, then," Leon chuckled, bumping her gently with his shoulder. Claire didn't do well in the heat, despite her attempts to beat it back by wearing as little clothing as possible. Not that Leon was complaining—he'd let her walk a little ahead of him every so often to admire the angularity her hips gave her denim skirt and the sliver of skin where her shirt rode up.

Stumbling, she giggled and bumped him back, a little harder. "Oh, _shut_ up, Kennedy."

The back of her tight magenta t-shirt was typical Claire—two pistols with their barrels crossed, the words "Keep Yourself Alive" over them in a flowing script. Leon always got a bang out of Claire's customized clothes, but he hesitated to comment on them ever since the time he'd teased her that she should do a pair of jeans with the words "You make the rockin' world go round" on the pockets and she'd beaten the hell out of him with a pillow, screaming, "Are you saying I'm _fat_, Kennedy?"

He was far more muted than she was tonight, a black t-shirt over jeans. Normally when they went out, he dressed up a little more, but the Miami heat had seriously limited his wardrobe choices. Part of his desire to look nice when he took Claire out to dinner was to see her reaction, and part of it was the fact that long-sleeved button-down shirts were far better at concealing the corded muscles and scarred skin of Agent Kennedy, an identity he still wasn't sure he was comfortable in.

"Come on. Let's cool you off." Using his grip on her hand, he pulled her towards the nearest door, which was swinging open to allow a giggling blonde and her escort to escape into the heat of the dying day. Music and conversation could be heard behind the couple, and Claire allowed Leon to hold the door for her as she went inside.

"You're tired of walking already? We haven't even been halfway down the strip yet!" Claire giggled as they appraised the bar's interior. Leon almost laughed at how they both instantly put their backs to the wall, ensuring they could see the entire room. Claire was angled towards a corner, the perfect starting point should she need to strafe the place. He smiled at her—Claire, his blaster, the only woman in the world he trusted to watch his back instead of shoot him in it.

"Is there a rule against having a drink before dinner?" he teased, moving closer to her with a shift of his weight from one foot to the other.

"Don't' forget someone has to drive home," Claire warned, raising her voice to be heard over the bar's jukebox and its loudly chattering patrons. "I don't care which of us it is, as long as we don't wreck on the way back."

"You make it sound like I've _ever_ been drunker than you," Leon chuckled. "Not even that night at the karaoke bar."

Claire snorted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I may have been drunker than you, but you were undeniably wasted. You had to have been to forget the words to 'Feel Like Makin' Love'!"

"Your brother forgot the words to 'Surfin' Bird'," Leon shot back, then added in a mutter, "Thank Christ."

Claire shrieked a laugh at the memory. "Jill was _so_ mad on the ride home I thought she was just going to open the passenger door and push him out with her foot."

"She should have," Leon said, wrinkling his nose. "Maybe then Chris wouldn't have thrown up in the glove compartment."

Claire only laughed harder. "The joke was on my brother. It was _his_ car!"

Leon elbowed her gently. "Come on, beautiful. Let me buy you a drink."

Claire frowned playfully at him, but let him lead her through the crowd to the bar. Leon never had trouble creating a path, his height and broad shoulders doing most of the work for him. Bringing Claire in close to him, he leaned against the bar, waiting for the harried bartenders to take his order.

Claire smirked and shook her head, ponytail waving as she pointed to herself. Squeezing in front of Leon, she hopped up, leaning over the bar on her stomach, giving the bartenders a good view of her cleavage. Of course, one of them stopped, breaking into a movie-star grin at her attempt to get his attention.

"What can I get you?" the bartender yelled, leaning in close, seemingly to hear Claire better, but Leon saw the man's gaze flicker reflexively down.

"I want a margarita," she yelled back, ponytail pooling like lava on the bar, then flicking like flame as she indicated Leon with a flip of her head, "and the big guy will have a Guinness."

The bartender's attention flickered to "the big guy", and Leon had never been more grateful for all the weight training. He hadn't lifted weights to stay in shape enough to run the physical course and pass his five-year review. He'd lifted weights to look like a complete badass and let even a casual observer know that he could hit with everything he had if it was necessary.

The bartender smiled as he turned back to Claire with the drinks. "Salt or sugar?" he asked.

Placing a hand on Claire's back, Leon reached across her to hand the man cash. "No thanks," he said, smiling just enough to bare fangs. "She's sweet enough."

The bartender could tell an alpha male when he saw one. He placed the drinks in front of them and took the cash, putting his hands up in an I-mean-no-harm gesture. "Here you go. You two have a good night."

When they'd moved to a less crowded area of the bar, Claire smirked and gave Leon a little push. "You big _bully_. Scaring a poor defenseless bartender like that."

Caught, Leon feigned innocence. "I just wanted to make sure he took his head out of your cleavage long enough to bring us our drinks."

Claire scoffed, slapping his arm. "You're delusional. He was harmless. Although, with the way you were acting, he probably thought you were my jealous boyfriend!"

Arching an eyebrow, Leon smiled at her over the rim of his glass. "How do you know I'm not?"

**

Palm fronds whispered to each other over the horizon, black against the indigo sky. Leon closed his eyes, the better to hear their lullaby, to scent Claire's perfume as she sat across from him at an outside table. He could feel the gentle weight of her gaze on him

"Let's stay here," she said softly beyond the dark of his eyelids.

Eyes still closed, his lips curved in a smile. "Why's that? Do they have calamari?"

She laughed that cream-soda laugh, and he felt gentle fingers smooth a blond forelock out of his eyes. "Because you look so happy."

He opened his eyes, seeing her blaze against the indigo night, a frenzy of color and heat beneath the cool sky. "I am happy," he murmured, watching her hair catch the fairy lights strung around the café's outdoor section. "I'm very happy."

She batted her lashes at him, toying with the menu. "Although, since you brought up calamari…"

His tongue wrapped familiarly around the magic words that began every moving-day dinner, as surely as every fairy tale began with _Once upon a time_. "Claire. You can have anything you want."

Claire knew her lines, too. "You know, I could pay for dinner tonight."

It always got a grin out of him. "Not on your life."

"In that case, two lobsters," she said smoothly, anticipating his answer. "What will _you_ be having?"

He smirked. She never ordered even one lobster, let alone two.

The conversation seemed to be amusing the tiny blonde waitress who had sidled up to the table. "You two look like you're having fun already," she greeted them, then turned to Leon. "What can I bring you guys?"

"I wouldn't mind another Guinness," Leon said hopefully. "And an order of calamari to start, please."

"Sure thing." The blonde's curls slid over her shoulder as she tilted her head, writing it down. Then she smiled and nodded at Claire, but continued to address Leon. "And what about your sweetheart?"

Blood rushed to Claire's cheek, and she glanced quickly back and forth from him to the waitress and back again, ponytail waving almost nervously.

Leon just smiled. "My sweetheart can have anything she wants."

The waitress beamed, turning her attention to Claire. "Well, aren't you lucky to have such a generous man."

Leon's stomach flipped, waiting for Claire to shut down, but the redhead returned the waitress's smile. "Trust me. I'm the luckiest girl in the world," she said. Her tone was light and carefree, although her cheek was still bright with a blush and she caught Leon's eye as she returned to her margarita.

The waitress giggled and left them a couple of menus and bounced off, saying, "I'll bring you that calamari and your beer right away, and I'll be back in a few minutes if you guys want to order dinner."

Claire smiled over the rim of her glass, eyes twinkling. "So what are you going to get?" She treated ordering dinner like drafting fantasy football picks, and absolutely refused to order the same thing as him, the better to sample whatever he was eating so as not to miss out on anything. Not that he was ever unwilling to share.

Opening the menu, Leon quickly skimmed the list of entrees, looking for something she'd like. "How about I have the porterhouse and you have whatever you want…and part of the porterhouse?"

She kicked him under the table, snickering, but after the strike her foot remained close, hooked around his ankle.

**

Maybe it was all the Guinness, but the apartment already felt like home to Leon as he shouldered the door open, his arm around Claire's waist. They spun in a graceless dance as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen table and Claire hopped up to sit on the counter like they'd choreographed it. Sighing, he allowed himself to collapse on Claire's twin bed, which was still at a skewed angle in the living room. She laughed, kicking her foot idly. "I'm not moving that while you're on it. Speaking of which, we still haven't figured out where to put it. I'm sure as hell not sleeping out here."

Leon closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, the languor of a really good steak dinner and the company of a pretty girl overtaking him. "I'll think of something. Just give me a couple of minutes and I'll figure it out..."

He could hear the smile in Claire's voice. "Take your time. I'm going to let the dog out, okay? I'll be right back."

She wasn't talking about a German Shepherd, although Leon often dreamt of getting one someday, dreamt of a life that was normal and safe enough that he and Claire would be home often enough to have a dog. What she meant was her blue steel beauty—her Beretta shotgun, a smaller model for her smaller frame. Every so often, especially the first two times they'd moved, when she'd heard a noise, she'd tell him she was going to "sit up a while with the dog" and stay awake with the shotgun, eyes scanning the shadows outside for any signs of movement. Wanting to banish the unpleasant thought of her nervousness from his mind, he smiled instead at the idea of Claire in denim cutoffs and a t-shirt, throwing a tennis ball to a big, happy dog in some sunny park somewhere, and promised himself once more that someday he'd see it happen.

**

Leon woke abruptly from a leaden sleep, realizing the apartment was dim except for the light above the stove in the kitchen. He sat up, dizzy from a sudden rush of panic, and swung his legs over the side of Claire's twin bed. His boots were placed neatly beneath the bed, unlaced. Had Claire done that? Why hadn't she woken him?

His voice was scratchy from sleep as he called, "Claire?"

"Here." The cream-soda voice floated in from the kitchen, and then she resumed humming along with the radio he only just realized now was on.

She was seated at the kitchen table, cleaning his Sig Sauer with practiced hands, purring a harmony to the dreamy bass line of "Nothing Else Matters". A good portion of the arsenal they'd collected over the years lay on the table before her, including the Browning Hi-Power nine millimeter that had traveled with Claire all the way from Raccoon City, but she'd selected the Sig first. His gun.

Claire tilted her head up to smile at him, her hands still working. "Hey, big cat," she said cheerfully. "Have a good rest?"

He stretched his arms over his head, then leaned against the counter to watch her work. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Claire glanced back down at the Sig. "You looked like you needed the sleep. I didn't want to disturb you."

"But nothing's unpacked…and we have to hide the knives—"

"Done," she said smoothly. "I unpacked your stuff and put it in your bureau. If you don't like the way I arranged everything you can change it, but at least it's all out of your suitcases. Those are in your closet, by the way. I put my stuff in my armoire, but you're going to have to leave your door unlocked in the mornings so I can get at my stuff if I'm sleeping out in the living room. I still don't know what to do about that."

Leon blinked. "The knives?"

"Done that too. I wrote everything down so you'll know where it all is, but I'm not giving it to you until you at least try to guess." She beamed, pleased with her game. Brightening with a happier thought, she added, "Oh, and I figured out the alarm, too. The code is your badge number from the R.P.D."

Quietly awed, Leon let himself lean against the counter. "You remember my badge number from the R.P.D.?" Even as he asked, he knew it was a stupid question. Every detail of that night was carved into high relief in his memory; no doubt hers as well.

Claire flushed, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry if that bothers you, but we're running out of four-digit numbers."

"No…no," he said quickly. "It doesn't bother me. I'm just—I can't believe you remember that."

"Well, that one's my _coup de grace_," she laughed. "You're coming up with the next four-digit number. I'm tapped out."

Leon felt like checking her head for a halo. "You didn't have to do all that by yourself. You should have woken me. And you don't have to…_clean_ my _gun_," he chuckled, shaking his head.

Claire smiled, that heavenly Redfield smile. "Think of it as my way of doing your laundry." She laughed again. "And I won't accidentally shrink it or turn it pink." Checking the safety on the Sig, she placed it aside and reached for one of her own guns, her Glock 17. Leon also had a Glock, but it was easy to tell his apart from Claire's—hers was hot pink, stock, magazine and all. It had been a birthday present from Chris—he'd picked it up in California where they weren't just legal, but fashionable.

Leon loved Claire's weapons. Each one was chosen carefully, and each was special to her—Claire took nothing to her hand by accident. Even the red and white umbrella she'd used as a bludgeon in the Harvardville airport was a hilarious joke to her, something she'd recalled with inebriated glee at a bar table when she was telling the story to her brother and Jill. Leon had downed a shot in the middle of the story, not trusting himself not to break into hysterical giggles of his own. Next to Claire's weapons, his own looked boring, coldly professional. Claire's weapons were just like her—eye-catching, shining with personality.

As if echoing his thoughts, two golden PO8 Lugers gleamed warmly at him as he watched her work. Those were Claire's as well. The guns were a memento, a bittersweet souvenir from Claire's adventures overseas. Leon had heard that horrific bedtime story before, and every time it made him constrict his embrace just a little more, hold her just a little bit tighter. But every time they moved, he never objected to her hanging the guns on the wall above her bed. They were like the bullet scar on his shoulder, like the vest that Claire had given to Sherry Birkin—badges of honor; proof that they had survived and come out the other side.

"Thanks for taking care of everything," he blurted out, unsure suddenly of what to say but wanting to let her know, somehow, how important she was to him. He winced, his own voice sounding harsh and discordant against the Alice in Chains ballad over the radio. "I…I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Your gun might jam," Claire laughed. "It was the least I could do, Leon. You're always taking such good care of me."

"We take care of each other," he corrected her. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

She smiled, turning slightly in her chair to look at him, really look at him. Reaching across the table, her hands found the Lugers without having to look.

"We're like golden guns," Claire sighed prettily, taking one Luger by the barrel and offering it to him, twirling the other on her trigger finger effortlessly.

"How are we like golden guns?" he murmured, taking the offered Luger and smiling at her strength. "We're shiny and lethal?"

She tilted her head just a little, beaming. "We work best as a pair."

He laughed; he couldn't help it. "I _love_ that."

She giggled along with him for a minute, then settled, putting her Luger back down on the table and rising to her feet. "Thank you for supper," she said softly, advancing to put her arms about his neck in a way that made his heart rate pick up.

He put his own Luger aside to return the embrace, straightening up against the counter. "You never have to thank me, Claire. It's tradition."

"Someday I'll convince you to let me pay," she said, tilting her head to look him in the eyes.

He chuckled, meeting her gaze. "No, you won't. A gentleman never lets a lady pay for a meal."

Claire's lashes drifted to half-mast. He half-expected her to make a wisecrack about how he was no gentleman, or she was no lady. But all she said was, "People will say we're in love."

Gently, Leon brushed her bangs out of her eyes and asked her the question again, the one that had been preying on his mind since before he'd first asked it earlier that night. The question that had been preying on his mind ever since he'd first taken her hand in his, all those years ago. "How do you know we're not?"

Claire blushed, turning her head away as though she were suddenly shy, but didn't try to break his hold on her. "Because people in love just do silly things all the time."

He continued to stroke her hair. "Like what?"

She leaned into his touch. "Like…go on silly dates to stuffy places."

"Like dinner at a chic nightspot?" he asked, twisting a lock of her ponytail around his finger.

Claire's brows quirked and her eyes held a challenge as she continued defiantly, "People in love make a big deal out of pointless things, like anniversaries—"

"October first," Leon murmured. "It was a little cold. You were wearing black and pink. Had your hair tied up just like this." He played with the tail of hair he'd come to worship over the years. "It was my first day, and you were the one who was handling things like a champ. You took that gun and you chambered a round, tough as nails. You were amazing."

"A Browning Hi-Power nine millimeter," Claire agreed in a whisper, turning her head as if she would look at it on the table behind her. "You could have taken that gun for yourself, but you gave it to me. I remember."

"What else do people in love do?" he asked, stroking his knuckles across her cheek.

Claire sighed through her nose, but her steely eyes had softened. "People in love know the most ridiculous things about each other, like their blood types—"

"O. You can donate to me but I can't donate to you."

"—and their favorite articles of clothing—"

"Your brother's leather jacket. It looks good on you, too, because it's a little too big, so you look smaller."

Claire's eyes were sleepy; her gaze once more fixed on him. "—and their favorite songs."

"_Something happens and I'm head over heels_…" He had to smile at himself; he knew he was pretty much tone-deaf.

Claire wasn't, though. She smiled a little as she picked up where he'd left off, that cream-soda voice soothing his own off-key attempt. "_I never find out till I'm head over heels…_"

She let her song trail off as her lashes drooped, and her voice sounded small as she asked, "Why did you ask me to come live with you?"

"Why did you come live with me?" he asked.

She frowned. "I asked you first."

Leon knew the answer to that, of course. He pressed his palm to hers, spreading their fingers together as if they were measuring size. "Because my shoulder doesn't ache when you're around."

"I'm serious," Claire said.

"So am I," he insisted, lacing his fingers through hers. "The old injuries, the memories, the nightmares—they don't hurt when you're near me. Nothing hurts when I'm with you, Claire. I like staying up late with you and watching movies. I like taking you places and treating you to supper. I like hiding the knives and moving the furniture and playing Nintendo. I even like arguing over whether or not to shop at the twenty-four hour drugstore or wait till we have time to go to the Wal-Mart."

Claire made a sound and shook her head, dropping her arms to her sides. "Leon, who _cares_ if the prices at the 24-hour store are higher? Do we really have to experience what life is like without toilet paper just because we haven't had time to go to Wal-Mart?"

Just like that, the tension was broken. Leon laughed aloud, a good, rib-aching laugh, tightening his hold on her. Claire went willingly into the embrace.

"Your turn," he told her. "Why did you come live with me?"

Claire tried to shrug, but it was difficult due to the fact that Leon had wound her hopelessly in his arms. "I wanted to," she said. "I knew it would be fun."

"Five moves in almost three years and you think it's _fun_?" he asked.

"It's definitely not _boring_," she said, bumping her head against his shoulder affectionately, the same way she'd been doing for years. "I'd rather do this _with_ someone than just by myself, you know?"

He certainly did. "Thanks for choosing me."

Claire laughed. "It was no contest. You're pretty much my favorite person."

He focused his gaze on her again. "You're _my_ favorite, Claire," he told her. "I asked you to live with me because I couldn't keep losing you."

She frowned. "You never lost me," she promised.

Leon shook his head, releasing her and turning away from the counter. "Everyone's always bitching about Raccoon City, about everything they lost, everything they had to give up. The city gave me you, Claire," he said. "And then just like that it took you away again. The radios kept drifting and I couldn't hear your voice…and then you were gone, off to Europe, and I lost contact with you…"

Claire reached for him, circling to face him. Her expression was fragile, as if she wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly. "Leon…"

He took her hands in his. "I asked you to live with me because I wanted you to stay. I don't care if people say you're my girlfriend, I don't care if you order a four hundred dollar bottle of wine at dinner. I want you to stay." The confession exhausted him; he'd never felt more profoundly tired in his life. "And even if you _never_ fell in love with me, Claire, at least we'd be together…"

Her hands were still in his; now she tightened her grip, lacing their fingers together, eyes drifting to half-mast.

"You never lost me," she repeated, just above a whisper. "You always had me, every step of the way."

"How about now?" Leon asked, touching his forehead to hers and using the hold on her hand to draw her against his chest. "Do I have you now?"

Claire nodded, slow and dreamlike, nose brushing his, parted lips the invitation he'd been waiting years for. One hand braced against his shoulder, stroked a bullet scar through his shirt before dropping to press over his heart, and he felt feverish with years of tension resolving itself in magnetism and passion and her frantic heartbeat against his chest.

"Friends don't kiss like that," she whispered when they parted, lips curving into that angel's smile. "People will say I'm your girlfriend."

He smiled, brushing her bangs out of her hazy eyes. "_Girlfriend_ is a word for someone who wears your letter jacket and sneaks out of her window to see you. There are so many words that fit you better."

"Like what? _Roommate_?" Her eyes twinkled. "Maybe…_partner_? Although, I do like _favorite_…"

"I like…_mine_," he decided, leaning in to take her mouth once more.

Claire broke the kiss this time, stroking gently down his upper arms. "Have to put the guns away," she whispered, rolling her lips under as though she were savoring the taste of his kiss. "Then I'm all yours."

He stopped her with his index and middle fingers through the belt loops of her denim skirt, leaning in close once more. "What if I help you?"

"Then I'm yours that much faster." She whispered the words against his mouth, then closed her lips on his once more.

Leon found it harder than ever to concentrate on simple tasks when the teasing banter that had always bounced so easily between them was now infused with such promise; the sliver of skin that was visible when her shirt rode up as she reached to place the Glocks in the hall closet was the most distracting thing that had ever happened to him. She yawned adorably as she came down from her toes, turning from the closet to smile at him.

Leon smiled back. "You're exhausted. You need to get some sleep."

"I believe I promised to be all yours," she teased, but she was blinking her stormsky eyes, lashes sweeping up and down like fans.

"We have time," he promised softly, taking her hand in his and leading her back into the living room.

"What are you doing?" she laughed softly as he let himself collapse onto her twin bed once more, this time pulling her down with him.

He smiled, settling down with her in his arms and stroking her bangs from her sleepy eyes. "Figuring out the sleeping arrangements."

She laughed again, resting her head on his chest. "This is your solution?"

"It's just one possible solution," Leon said, closing his own eyes. "Tomorrow I want to see how we fit in my bed."

**

**Author's Notes:**

Okay, threats are over. Now for the fun part. Everyone who's read my stories before will be used to this by now. Welcome to **Star's Fic Appendix**, where all my many references are explained for those in the studio audience who may not be as geeky as I am:

**When stormy weather comes around, it was Made In Heaven: **One thing I'd really like to point out right away is this: people keep leaving reviews on my older RE fics trying to "correct" me about Claire's wardrobe. They keep informing me that her vest reads **"Let Me Live",** even when I'm very clearly referring to her outfit from _Resident Evil 2_, which reads **"Made In Heaven"**_._ *chuckles.* While I have to smile at the idea of someone thinking I didn't know my way around RE (because let me tell you, I've done more laps around Raccoon City than the Raccoon High track team) my pride simply won't allow me to let it go uncommented on, even after all these years. Of _course_ I'm aware that Claire's vest reads "Let Me Live"—in _CODE: Veronica_, **NOT**, I repeat, **NOT** in _Resident Evil 2._ In RE2, her vest reads **"Made in Heaven"**, just like Chris's leather jacket in the original _Resident Evil_ (it's an unlockable Easter-Egg outfit, and can also be seen hung on the wall of the S.T.A.R.S. office in RE2. I'm planning to paint the design on a leather motorcycle jacket of my own). Take it from someone who has the words "Let Me Live" tattooed on her back—I know what I'm doing. Which leads me to our next item:

**"Keep Yourself Alive"**: True to form, Claire is rocking a Queen song on the back of her shirt. (I'd love to design that shirt, or a similar jacket, someday.) Likewise, Leon's wisecrack about the jeans is an allusion to another awesome Queen anthem, **"Fat-Bottomed Girls"**. I can see why Claire may have been upset *^_^*

**Baby's black balloon makes her fly:** I really believe that everyone has a few songs that they just know in their hearts were written about them, no matter what reality may say. _Black Balloon_ is one of mine—that song is about me. I don't know exactly when in my life I'm going to realize why it was written about me, I just know it was. It can be found on the Goo Goo Dolls album _Dizzy Up The Girl_.

**Search and rescue:** As I said earlier, I haven't yet had the chance to see _Degeneration_, so this story is obviously independent of that timeline since I don't know enough about it to write it properly. But I did like the idea of Claire working for an organization like TerraSave. I don't actually know much about the TerraSave organization; I'm not even sure how much it's discussed at all in the movie. Ergo, I had to take a few liberties here, but I really liked the way it turned out. Because I wanted to put a little spin on it—any _Resident Evil_ fan worth their salt knows Claire is awesome, and much too cool to be doing legwork for a bunch of hippies. So I decided to spin it a bit and have her work for them as a sort of field agent, a problem-solver who extracts persons of interest from bad situations. After all, she's had the practice—and to have her do anything less would be an absolute waste of her talent and aim, in my opinion.

Claire teases Leon for forgetting the words to **Feel Like Makin' Love**, which always sounds adorable when a drunk boy tries to sing it. That song's performed by **Bad Company**. On the other hand, I don't think anyone needs my help to make a **Surfin' Bird** joke. Suffice it to say it's by The Trashmen and it's probably about the worst song ever released in the history of histories.

Leon and Claire may have gotten drinks at **The News Café** on Ocean Drive in Miami. It's open 24 hours, which lends itself to their particular off-kilter schedules—and mine, as well, since I may be visiting sooner

than I think.

**The hot pink Glock 17:** If anyone thinks I just made up the part about the hot pink Glock, I didn't. They really exist. You can get custom-colored guns, which are constantly causing trouble in California, from a few places I think, including but possibly not limited to Jim's Gun Supply.

**The golden Lugers: **Being not only the canon angel but the video game expert that I am, I'm fully aware of the fact that you cannot leave Rockfort Island with the golden Lugers—they are necessary to trigger the door latch in the highest room of the Ashford house and you can't take them with you once the door is opened. I'm aware that this is a _slight _breach of canon (you can all look shocked at me for a second. Okay, now stop it. _Stop it_, I said!). However, I couldn't resist including them here—they are a _gorgeous_ set of guns. I should know—I've got them hanging on my wall. *^_^* Sure, mine are Airsoft—they take pellets, not 9X19 parabellum rounds--and I'd certainly not allow a whiny little wuss like Steve Burnside to get ahold of them, but they are a pair of treasures, all the same. The German Luger P08 semi-automatic pistol, popular during both World Wars, has always been a beautiful design. Although it's obsolete and there were some tricky aspects of it, such as a tendency to jam when loaded with a lower-pressure cartridge, a Luger looks downright smashing on anyone. I love weaponry—blades, bows, bullets; weapons are one of my favorite things to study and admire (my dream gun, which I couldn't afford in a month of Sundays, is also mentioned in this fic—the **Seecamp .380 ADO**, the even more badass cousin of the **Seecamp .32 autoloader**. Did you know that Larry Seecamp still test-fires every gun they sell himself? *^_^*). I have several replicas of weapons I've loved over the years, mostly memorable blades from different stories along with some popular firearms, but I couldn't pass up a chance at the Ashford Lugers (which I loved from the moment Claire and I discovered them in _CODE: Veronica_) when it was offered to me. They look lovely on my wall, and even lovelier in my hands. So including them in this story is just a little smile for myself, and my ongoing love affair not only with LeonxClaire, but with two golden guns.

**Claire listens to the radio:** While there's not really a mention of them in the fic, some of the songs that come over the air while Claire is cleaning guns in the kitchen might be "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica and "Brother" by Alice in Chains, both of which I was listening to when I first drafted the framework for this story, along with Def Leppard's "Hysteria" and "Love Song" by the Cure. The last especially always makes me think of Leon and Claire.

_**Something happens and I'm head over heels, I never find out till I'm head over heels**_**: **The "favorite song" that Leon demonstrates his knowledge of is my favorite song. It has been my favorite song ever since I first heard it over ten years ago. If anyone knows it, feel free to sing along.

And lastly…

**Occam's Razor: **_All parts being equal, the simplest solution is often the best one._


End file.
